To Slay a Dragon Read online

TO SLAY A DRAGON

  By

  J. Niessen

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  Published By:

  To Slay a Dragon

  Copyright 2013 by J. Niessen

  Cover Page by J’s Art Emporium, Copyright 2013

  Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the material remains in its complete original form.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Thank you for taking the time to read and discover this collection of stories. Any questions, comments, or concerns regarding such material can be forwarded to [email protected]

  This introductory series is being offered at no cost. In exchange please leave a kind and supportive review, with an encouraging five star rating.

  Table of Contents:

  Part 1: Dragon Spirit

  Part 2: Dragon Soul

  Part 3: Dragon Breath

  Dragon Spirit

  In my elder years, I believe the litany of prescribed medication (consumed daily) accounts for strange nightmares. Early this Friday morning I’m awakened by a phone call. Before that I’m in a deep slumber, visualizing myself traveling by foot with a small unit of military pals in unfamiliar territory. We navigate through dark tunnels. Our hunt entails a troubling creature. Unstable chasms impede the way. The dragon’s huge body fills large gaps that open to a bottomless void. The first half of our party jumps past the creature. Suddenly the beast shifts, shaking the sub-earth. I (accompanied by the other half of our party) hurry in an alternate direction leading to the surface. Ahead is a bleak field with random dirt mounds covered by straw. It’s clear that I must seek where the menace hides. One small hill is interestingly shaped. I carefully push the debris aside. There the surfaced head of the monster, still sleeping, lies. Regrouped, our party leader raises a sharp sword. The blade softly cuts through the dragon’s thick scales, marking an X on its cheek. With a large war hammer our surveyor pounds the noted area. The contoured surface cracks like cinderblock. More swings break away the brittle construction. Revealed are tall buildings which we stand amongst. This dragon is creating a façade. We’re in a dark alleyway. A seedy-looking fellow approaches us beyond a chain-linked gate. He wears off-white leather. His hair is jet-black, grown to shoulder length. The anticipation of conversation builds. Before words can be spoken the moment ends.

  Disoriented from the abrupt wakening, I greet “Hello?” There’s only silence, then a crackle over the line. The receiver clicks as the call is hung up. On the phone’s I.D display it lists [Unknown Caller]. The same tag appears for last night’s call at 12:35:00 am. This has been going on every morning and every night at the exact same time for the last week.

  Imagining there may be a family emergency at the time of the call, I’ve answered the phone at these odd hours. A spoken response is never returned. Now when the display lists Unknown Caller, I let the answering machine get it.

  On Friday afternoons I take the bus to the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) social hall, and gather with fellow vets. We tilt back a few cold ones and reminisce on our days in the service. Sometimes conversations become serious; we each have dark stories yet untold. Since weeding out one individual who lied to us about time served, we’re skeptical of new faces. Each night a traditional meal is offered, geared around Mess Hall chow, or a festive spread is put on. March is my favorite when corned beef with stewed cabbage and red potatoes is served. The guys generally pack up around sunset, which is when I head home.

  I nod to my bus driver Willie, as I step in off the street. His crooked smile is something to get used to. Courteously I maintain eye contact and take note that his uncut, thin, greasy hair reminds me of the character at the end of my dream this morning. His look turns to a sour scowl as I walk past, believing I’m not watching.

  Each night there’s the face of a new passenger sitting toward the back of the bus, staring me down with unblinking, unmoving eyes. I take my seat halfway back, sensing their gaze on my back side. Tonight there are two men. They sit apart, yet I suspect they know each other. Maybe not personally, like I know the guys at the VFW, but they’re associates.

  Willie knows where to drop me off, negating a pre-signal as to my stop. I wonder if these latest lowlife passengers will stand in response to me getting up. Will they exit the back door as I walk up front to thank Willie and bid him goodnight? It’s been a long time since these hands were used as a means for physical defense. My spark may appear dim, but the desire’s there.

  The men remain still. Petty criminals slink behind their lead, as they follow. Crafty and tactical individuals keep a step ahead. Maintaining focus is critical as I travel the five blocks from the bus stop to my porch. It’s difficult to see at night. The lights cause a glare. Images are distorted after corrective surgery to my right eye. Following a routine physical, the doctor found the retina torn. Neither I nor the doctor can be certain of the cause, but with lasers the head physician makes repairs. My eyesight’s still not any better, but at least it’s not getting worse.

  Some kids remain out past dark, reminding me of a saying, “Your Mother Doesn’t Care, Because She Doesn’t Love You.” It’s Friday night, and the mom’s Jeep isn’t parked out front. Fifty years ago each family car would be parked. At each house the porch light would be on, and the kitchen window lit, with that household’s mother/wife cooking or cleaning plates. Now it’s single moms. Dejected bachelors. Empty, foreclosed property units. Dysfunctional routines.

  “Here’s the Bastard Three” I think to myself as I approach the group of kids sitting on the curb, looking at me with cold stares. It’s a deserved title each has earned. They show no respect in my presence. They’re foulmouthed, misbehaved, and abusive. Standing in a challenging mannerism, they walk toward me. If I’m carrying groceries they command, “What’s in the bag?” When returning home empty handed, they insist “Give me some money.” I tried obliging by offering each a nickel. Degenerates. They toss down the money and demand, “No, old man, give me some real money!” the older one gesturing with his hand rubbing his fingers together.

  Other local kids are easy to get along with, having grown up here in the neighborhood, and familiarize with from infancy. These kids moved in a few months ago, and I imagine if their mom doesn’t work her angle properly, they’ll be skipping out to another burb (suburb). Once I tried talking to Linda, their mother, about her kids’ behavior. Now I know where they get their language and foul attitude. Inadvertently I attack her pride. She defends them not of concern, but haughty selfishness, when her dimwitted esteem regards our encounter as a confrontational battle, assuming I’m underhandedly pointing the finger at her parenting skills.

  The punks push past me in silence tonight.

  I wonder “What’s the point?” My house is cold and lonely. Neighbors scream at each other through the night. I go to bed early to put the day behind me. Then I’m reminded of troublesome individuals when the phone rings at 12:35am. Where is life’s meaning in this? I look forward to Fridays with my fellow seniors, wasting the rest of the week away. The one thing keeping my mind off of the emptiness of life is the small patch of garden I have in my front yard. And then there’s the times when one of the pretty neighborhood gals smiles to greet me on her walk past the house.

  Do my eyes deceive me? I can’t believe this is happening as I reach my yard! Shock from the putrid aroma sours my nasa
l passages as if acidic-poison were funneled up into my body. The garden I’ve so tediously worked on is ruined; the life I’ve nurtured to growth is transformed into black sludge from a mysterious solution that’s present only here in my yard.

  The kids are staring over at me, watching closely. Has their outlook become so depraved, that they’ve intentionally ruined my single passion, lusting to revel in my misery? Or did they notice the hazard earlier and lurk in wait to see how I’ll respond, hopping I’d lash out with sharp accusations? I imagine they welcome the chance at a confrontation, harboring animosity for the way in which I went straight to their parent. Here they could be plotting a way to incite physical violence, with an outrageous spectacle in mind to perform. I’m to be wary; so often these days false allegations are referred to domestic officials. Innocent parties strictly persecuted.

  There are eyes on my whereabouts. But now it’s not just the kids. To avoid an inclination of displacement I open the yard gate, walk up the short flight of steps, unlock my front door, and go inside with the lights still off. My eyes aren’t too good at night, but once they’re